The Upas Tree eBook

“Your cousin, who still hopes better things
of you, and who will not fail in thought and prayer,

“HELEN
WEST.”

Part III

CHAPTER X

RONNIE ARRIVES IN A FOG

Ronnie reached Liverpool Street Station at 8 o’clock
on a foggy November morning.

After the quiet night on the steamer, the landing
in darkness at Harwich, and the steady run up to town,
alone in a first-class compartment, he felt momentarily
confused by the noise and movement within the great
city terminus.

The brilliant lights of the station, combined with
the yellow fog rolling in from the various entrances;
the onward rush of many feet, as hundreds of busy
men and eager young women poured out of suburban trains,
hurrying to the scenes which called for their energy
during the whole of the coming day; the gliding in
and out of trains, the passing to and fro of porters,
wheeling heavy luggage; the clang of milk-cans, the
hoot of taxi-cabs, and, beyond it all, the distant
roar of London, awaking, and finding its way about
heavily, like an angry old giant in the fog—­all
seemed to Ronnie to be but another of the queer nightmares
which came to him now with exhausting frequency.

As a rule, he found it best to wait until they passed
off. So, holding the Infant of Prague in its
canvas case in one hand, and the bag containing his
manuscript in the other, he stood quite still upon
the platform, waiting for the roar to cease, the rush
to pass by, the nightmare to be over.

Presently an Inspector who knew Ronnie walked down
the platform. He paused at once, with the ready
and attentive courtesy of the London railway official.

“Any luggage, Mr. West?” he asked, lifting
his cap.

“No, thank you,” replied Ronnie, “not
to-day.”

He knew he had luggage somewhere—­heaps
of it. But what was the good of hunting up luggage
in a nightmare? Dream luggage was not worth retrieving.
Besides, the more passive you are, the sooner the delusion
leaves off tormenting you.

“Have you come from the Hook, sir?” inquired
the inspector.

“Yes,” said Ronnie. “Did you
think I had come from the Eye?”

He knew it was a vile pun, but it seemed exactly the
sort of thing one says in a nightmare.

The inspector laughed, and passed on; then returned,
looking rather searchingly at Ronnie.

Ronnie thought it well to explain further. “As
a matter of fact, my friend,” he said, “I
have come from Central Africa, where I have been sitting
round camp-fires, in company with asps and cockatrices,
and other interesting creatures. I am writing
a book about it—­the best thing I have done
yet.”

The inspector had read and enjoyed all Ronnie’s
books. He smiled uneasily. Asps and cockatrices
sounded queer company.

“Won’t you have a cup of coffee, sir,
before going out into the fog?” he suggested.